The fear came as crashing waves, those of a winter beach rather than with any warmth. It came as a chill that went to the core of who I am and it snarled that I should cower. So I learned how to swim in the ice and live in that salty water with my own bravery as a furnace. For that is what being brave did for me, it gave me the strength to conquer fear and accept my pains as lessons I needed to master. It was a choice to walk through hell to find my heaven or remain in some half-life of neither for eternity. I chose to walk. That's brave. I'm proud of my choice.

A knock on farmhouse door used to mean something good, a neighbour with a gift or funny story - not anymore. It meant the guests under the floorboards had to be deathly quiet, even the baby. Any noise meant death for all and not quickly either; it meant a slow withering away in the concentration camps. An unnatural hush descended in the house, Victoria turned the radio on - their signal that the Nazi's had come. Albert wiped his sweaty palms on his work pants and opened the door, a genial smile plastered over his weathered features.

When Ron's best friend was bullied for shaving his hair off, he went in the next day with the exact same haircut. When he was invited to a climbing party he went, despite his fear of heights. He scaled the walls as far as he could, never relinquishing an opportunity to face his own fears. So years later when he became a firefighter no-one was surprised. That boy was born to be a hero, there was bravery stamped in his DNA.

It was an amazing feeling, when I knew my life was less important and my courage was in need. I felt my fears flow out and a warrior broke free inside me. I felt like I could do anything, unstoppable, fearless; death, pain, torture couldn't hold me back...